The knife

In the dark of night, a knife's silent whisper promises escape from the crushing weight of reality. But as the lines between madness and sanity blur, will its deadly allure prove too great to resist?

The Knife

The room hums. Low. Endless.
I’m under the blankets, but they’re not warm.
They’re heavy. Pressed into my chest.
Like they want me to stay.

The knife is on the desk.
Not hidden. Not forgotten.
It sits like it knows I’ll come for it.
Silver catching the streetlight,
breathing when I breathe.

I get up. Not because I want to.
Because I can’t stand lying here,
staring at the ceiling cracks
that look too much like roads to nowhere.

The mirror in the bathroom bends my face.
Too long. Too flat.
The smile I try on doesn’t fit.
It slides right off.

The day happens.
Or maybe I happen through it.
People talk.
Their words are paper tearing underwater.
Every sound is wrong.
I dig the pen into my palm.
It breaks the skin.
Red proof that I’m still here.

Night.
The knife waits.
I sit across from it like we’re in a game I don’t remember agreeing to.
It doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.
But I can feel it leaning closer.

When I pick it up, the cold spreads through my hand,
up my arm,
settling into my chest like a second heartbeat.
The metal whispers.
A promise: Quiet.

And then�"
fingers on my shoulder.
Too warm to be anything but real.
A voice cracks against my name.
Arms pull me in,
fold me small.
A phone buzzes in my pocket.
A friend’s name glows.

The knife is on the floor.
I don’t remember letting go.

It stays there.
Still breathing.
Still watching.

Some nights I feel it looking at me.
But the voices outside my door are louder now.
Not the ones in my head.
Real ones.

And one morning,
I realize the knife hasn’t moved in weeks.
It’s just metal again.
Just an object.
No heartbeat.

For now.

Author's Note

What do you think of my latest story about depression and mental health? It is an upgraded version of a previous story I wrote a while ago but in more detail this time.